


Shadow of the Blackbird

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Sexual Trauma/Rape, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 17:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: It wasn't intended to prompt the reaction he gets. He hasn't counted on Russo leaning into his touch, turning his face into his palm. Least of all he's anticipated his eyes, huge and hungry they stare up at him and it strikes a cord. The wrong kind of cord but Frank can't help it, what's done is done, it's like flipping a switch._flashback to Afghanistan; first sexual encounter





	Shadow of the Blackbird

**Author's Note:**

> vaguely inspired by Thirteen Ways of Looking At A Blackbird

The way he stretches, seductively, flaunting his long boyish limbs makes Frank suspect he's enjoying himself a little too much here. Not that it's a surprise Billy gets off on seeing him like this, on the receiving end of torture for once. War does strange things to people, you're never quite right after, or so Frank thinks looking back on what they've done. It changes you. Or perhaps it's reinforcing tendencies that were already there, hidden beneath a thin layer of civilization. It doesn't take much to scratch off than veneer, reveal what's underneath. 

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. What matters is that they've been here before, Billy and him, it's not new. Nothing of this is, not the blood, not the pain, not the hard-ons involved. They've been caught in this circle of violence for so long, probably it was only a matter of time before they started tearing each other apart.

So this is how it ends. In a dank cellar that stinks of blood and death. Not inappropriate.

Frank doesn't have to raise his head and look up to be constantly aware of Billy's presence, a shadow at the fringes of his perception. He can sense him watching the blood drip from his face and he's familiar enough with the hungry glint in his large, dark, empty eyes to visualize it just fine. Billy always looks so hungry. They didn't feed him enough when he was little, and hunger makes a kid desperate. Open for suggestions.

Billy told him the story once, his version of events, how he went after that good Samaritan at the children's home with a stickball bat because he wasn't interested in the games the creep wanted to play. Hit him good, he said, but Frank isn't stupid. He knows the lies you tell yourself to keep it together, to keep yourself from falling apart, and there's this gap in Billy's recount, the implication he knew right away what the guy was after. 

It never quite matched up with how he behaved.

_

Cerberus isn't even a cloud on the horizon yet when they're transferred to the same company, Marine special ops, deployed to Afghanistan; everyone's tough as nails and a bit rough around the edges so Frank fits right in. No one doubts he does. Billy Russo is having a harder time convincing people that he belongs, and it seems to get to him. Every time they call him _pretty_ he flinches a little. It's barely noticeable but Frank is good at seeing things others don't. Paying attention to detail can make the difference between life and death. It's a habit you can't simply turn off when you think you don't need it. 

They call him “pretty boy” and he watches Russo's hands curl into fists, the knuckles white against the skin, his lips pressed into a thin line, the set of his jaw tight. He might be pretty but pretty doesn't mean soft. Frank isn't one to fall for such misconceptions, common as they may be. Sure, Billy Russo is easy on the eye but it's what's beneath that counts and under the pretty surface he's ruthless. A stone cold killer. 

They all are. That's why they made the cut. Because they're good at what they do, because they're effective, and because they don't hesitate. Everyone of them is a weapon. Every one is deadly and Russo no less than the rest. Sometimes it's just easy to forget, with his slow smiles and agreeable manners. He has nothing of Frank's gruffness, he's sleek and smooth and good with words, and sometimes that comes in handy. To have someone with a pretty face and a disarming smile can open doors that otherwise would remain shut.

But still there's something off about Russo Frank can't quite put his finger on. The sight of him evokes a strange feeling in his gut and Frank always trusts his gut. It's how he survives. So he watches Russo more closely than the rest to figure out what it is that's setting his alarm signals off, but no matter how hard he's looking, he can't find anything special or especially odd about him. Russo seems to be a nice enough guy. No-fuss, down to earth, fun to have around. And after a while Frank almost forgets to be vigilant.

Things go fast in war. You barely know someone one day and you feel you're joined at the hip the next. You have to trust each other, your life depends on it. You save the other guy's ass. You bleed together. You sit next to each other after a mission when the adrenaline wears off and the pain sets in. Not just the physical pain but the mental shit – the endless replay of things that went wrong, of faces, of bodies, of destruction. 

Killing is easy. Frank isn't scared of death. Frank isn't scared of anything. But sometimes he thinks of Maria and the kids and how he can be what he is, despite of them. Technically he's only doing what he's supposed to, following orders. It's not his place to ask questions, he knows that, other people take these decisions but in the end it's him who pulls the trigger. He tries not to dwell too much on it though; you can't if you want to do the job. So he wipes off the blood, washes down the qualms with half a bottle of bourbon and goes on as he's expected to. Raid after raid, shot after shot, kill after kill.

Inevitably the day comes when a mission goes awry. It's an awfully close call. They barely make it out alive. Not all of them do. Two men down, two others hit so badly they have to be carried, the doctors aren't sure if they're going to make it, and quite a few more have suffered injuries that will take them out of the game for a while. 

Everyone's shaken. Upon their return to base there's a notable absence of the usual gallows humour. Frank's among the last to get patched up. He's just got a couple of scratches, nothing serious, most of the blood he's covered in isn't his own. That's why he's extra keen to get it off of him asap. When he stops by their quarters a glum silence is hanging over the place. No one seems eager to talk, and Frank is the last person to initiate a chat. He grabs his towel and a bottle of booze, unscrews it, takes a good swig and heads for the showers.

Somehow he expected to have them to himself, with everyone else confined to sick bay or curled up on their beds, getting blind drunk or popping downers like candy, but instead of the anticipated quiet he's greeted by the patter of water. It's Russo. He's sitting on the floor under the spray, his back against the wall. He's taken off his boots but apart from that he's fully clothed. His uniform is soaked and there's still blood washing out of the fabric, seeping away in pink clouds. 

Frank hangs the towel on one of the hooks and slumps down on the chair conveniently placed next to the door. He has another large gulp of bourbon before he sets the bottle down and starts unlacing his boots.

“You okay, Russo?” he says. It's a stupid question. It's pretty obvious he isn't but what else can he say? When he gets no answer he stands up and takes a few steps into Russo's direction to have a closer look. 

Perhaps it's the neon lights but Russo is pale as the fucking wall. His face looks like a mask, motionless, impassive. Fuck, Frank thinks but he doesn't say it. What he does is walk over and kneel next to Russo on the floor. The water falls down on him like rain, warm as tears. He realizes that even if Russo was crying he wouldn't know, water is water. He turns off the faucet. Russo doesn't blink an eye. When Frank touches his shoulder he expects him to lash out but he's not moving a muscle, he doesn't react at all. It's as if he hasn't even noticed Frank's there. 

“Billy,” he says and shakes him a little but Russo still doesn't acknowledge his presence. He just stares into the void. Even up close his features look mask-like, only now Frank thinks he can see the cracks. It's like looking at broken porcelain. It appears to be whole but when you're close enough you see the fissure fractures, the fine lines where the shards still hang on to each other, more from habit than anything else. He's sure one touch would be enough to destroy the illusion, make the mask slide off, make it shatter into a thousand pieces. 

And what would he find beneath, Frank wonders.

He reaches out to test his theory but reconsiders at the last moment and withdraws his hand. It's not his place to do this. He should let the professionals deal with this. He gets up, or at least tries to, because the moment he moves Russo's hand shoots out to grab his arm. His grip is like a vice, surprisingly strong for the state he's in. 

“Let me get you some help, Billy,” Frank says but Russo just looks at him out of glassy eyes, his head cocked like a curious bird, and doesn't let go.

“How do you do it, Frank?” he says after a couple of seconds.

“Do what?”

“Be so unaffected by all this.”

Frank gives a low huff. He can feel his thoughts twitching over his face. He's never been good with words. “It's just what I am.”

Russo's laugh sounds shrill, unnatural. “Lucky bastard.”

Frank shrugs. “I suppose so.” He never chose to be like this, but he can't deny it's convenient.

“Are you always this heartless then?”

Frank thinks of his children, snuggled up against his sides as he reads them their bedtime story. It's winter in this memory. It's cozy and warm on the bed, but there are icicles outside the window, like long sharp fangs of glass. Even in his dreams of domestic bliss the world is hostile.

“I guess I'm just good at keeping my emotions under lock and key when I have to.”

“Everyone does that,” Russo whispers. For a split second, before they go blank again, there's an odd haunted look in his eyes. 

“Yeah maybe.” Frank doesn't pay too much attention to how everyone copes, they all seem to manage somehow. 

“But you're so fucking cold.” 

Frank thinks of the icicles again, and he thinks of frost, of ice crystals crawling over glass. Perhaps that's what he is, inside. Frozen. It takes some effort to shake off the mental image.

“Listen Billy, you're in shock, you should go see a doctor, I'm sure they can give you something that will let you sleep, get a good night's rest.” He tries to gently pry Russo's fingers from his arm but to no avail, he'd have to break them to get free of his grip. 

“Don't you sometimes wonder if you're actually still alive?” Russo asks. “How do you know you're not dead?”

Frank is beginning to lose his patience. “What a fucked up question is this even? Come on, pull yourself together, soldier.” He shakes Russo again, a little harder this time, but Russo just lets him without putting up the slightest bit of the resistance. It's pointless, he's getting nowhere like this.

With a sigh Frank gets to his feet, prepared to use force in case Russo will persist holding on to him but there's no need, the moment he moves Russo's hand slides off him, feeble, dispirited, and he slumps forwards, against Frank's leg, as though he decided to return to the catatonic state Frank found him in. But there's something else to it, a kind of familiarity Frank finds impossible to distance himself from. Without really meaning to he lifts his hand to pat Russo's cheek like he would pet a dog or comfort a child. _There there, attaboy._ That kind of thing. A clumsy attempt to give him some solace.

It wasn't intended to prompt the reaction he gets. He hasn't counted on Russo leaning into his touch, turning his face into his palm. Least of all he's anticipated his eyes, huge and hungry they stare up at him and it strikes a cord. The wrong kind of cord but Frank can't help it, what's done is done, it's like flipping a switch.

He is no stranger to this. You don't go to war and never get around to this part where your body reminds you you're still alive and kicking and all your animal urges demand instant gratification. You didn't die, your body screams, now feed me. It's probably natural that this includes sex. What would be a better tribute to life than fucking? 

So, Frank assumes, it's no wonder rape is an accompaniment of war. They say rape isn't about sex but about violence, conquest, retribution. A weapon. They pretend there's no inherent connection. But whoever says that doesn't seem to know a thing about human nature. It's not that Frank would condone rape, on the contrary, but it's hard to deny the fact that ever so often sex _is_ about power. The comradely hand-jobs they swap in dark corners are (every one a struggle for control, rough, secretive, angry almost); and so is this. 

People get off on subjugation. He just wouldn't have guessed Billy Russo was into that shit. But who's Frank to judge? It's not as if he's immune to it. After all there's an animal hiding under his skin, blood-thirsty and feral, always ready for him to tap into. All he has to do is let go.

There's only one last restraint that's keeping him back. “You sure?” he asks, the thunderous rush of blood in his ears almost drowning out his own words. He's like a pit bull straining against his chain waiting for the one word to set him loose.

“Yes.” It's hardly more than a whisper but it's all he needs.

He grabs Russo's head – his hair is cut too short for him to get a good grip but he doesn't have to force him anyway, the tightening of his fingers is encouragement enough for him to press his mouth against Frank's crotch and Frank realizes he's half-hard already and growing rapidly harder. It's not exactly surprising that having a man on his knees before him has that effect on him. Russo makes a wet desperate sound in the back of his throat, eyes squeezed shut, and Frank can only imagine the sensation of the hot hard shape of his cock through his pants, the musky smell of it, the hunger it invokes, a hunger mirroring his own. 

An impatient growl is rising in Frank's chest as Russo keeps mouthing at him, his licking and nipping frustratingly muffled by the thick fabric. 

“Don't play around, boy.”

The rumble of his voice makes Russo shiver a little, or perhaps it's the word _boy_ , Frank wouldn't know. Russo does what he's told though and backs off enough to be able to fumble with Frank's belt buckle. Despite his trembling fingers he makes short work of opening Frank's pants, he's quick to get out his cock and eager to wrap his lips around it. The first lap of his tongue is almost too good to be true and Frank has to brace himself with his left arm against the wall to keep his footing. 

His free right hand rests on Russo's skull, fingers curled gently against the scalp, the stubble soft as feathers under his finger tips. He put it there in case he had to give him directions but Russo doesn't need directions, he knows what he's doing. He leans forward and lets Frank's erection slide deeper into the mellow heat of his mouth, over the wet inviting flat of his tongue and further, into the narrow tightness of his throat. Frank isn't small but Russo takes him like a pro. He doesn't stop until Frank is buried inside him to the hilt and he is struggling for control.

“Fuck,” he pants, trying to get used to the sensation. It's been too long, he won't last more than a couple of minutes at this rate, shit, maybe not even _one_ fucking minute. He doesn't look down when Russo pulls back, he's sure he's gonna come the moment he'll see his thick fat cock slipping from his lips, inch by inch, flushed with blood and glistening with saliva. Even the thought is almost too much.

Russo hums contently around his cock, tongue stroking slow and lazy against the underside, while his fingers twist into the fabric of Frank's pants, then he opens his mouth wide and Frank understands the invitation. He pushes into him, pulls out, repeat, again and another time. Faster, harder until Russo gags and splutters.

Frank's only dimly aware of the noises he's making himself, the groans and grunts, the curses and gasps, he's lost in his rhythm, the snaps of his hips, the friction he's getting from Russo's mouth and throat, all those sweet, mind-numbing sensations, the ache of it, the sheer unspeakable pleasure. He can feel his balls pulling up towards his body, the last tension before the finishing line and then, at last, the short moment of blissful oblivion.

He comes with a pained sound into Russo's mouth, spurt after spurt of seed pumping out of him and down Russo's throat until Frank is utterly, thoroughly spent. He almost collapses against the wall when he's done, and for a while he focusses on nothing but catching his breath. Russo is still clutching onto him with something like despair in his grip, as though Frank represents some sort of sanity he's afraid to lose. Which is fucking weird to say the least. 

“That was great,” Frank says when he's finally composed himself enough to be able to form words again. 

“Glad you think so.” Russo's small smile is a tiny bit odd, and there's a tinge of sarcasm in it, Frank doesn't like. He wants to wipe it off his face but instead he takes a step back and holds out his hand to pull him to his feet. Russo is taller than him by about two inches but Frank's so much heavier, Russo's height wouldn't be much of an advantage in a fight. Perhaps that's the reason this works for them in the first place, the fantasy of Frank being so unquestionably in charge. There's this haunted look in Russo's gaze again, fleeting and strange and gone in the blink of an eye, but Frank decides to ignore it as he sets his callused clumsy fingers to the task of unbuttoning Russo's uniform blouse. He peels him out of the blood stained fabric, then pulls his T-shirt over his head. 

He's seen him naked countless times before, it's really not that special, but somehow context is everything. Now that Russo is his to touch and enjoy, Frank's perspective is fundamentally changed; he can appreciate his good looks for example. Billy Russo is definitely pretty, no matter how much he dislikes the assessment. He has a certain effortless kind of elegance. Instead of bulky he is slender and well-defined. The only flaw anyone could find are the traces of violence on his body: His smooth skin is marred by bruises, black and blue, and fresh pink abrasions, old bullet wounds and hardly scabbed cuts. Frank's hands skim over injuries on their way down to the waistband of Russo's pants and Russo bites his bottom lip in anticipation. 

Frank undresses him with a crude unceremonious efficiency, yanks down his underwear with the combat pants, and within seconds has stripped him completely. Russo is hard. No surprise there. But it's something Frank hasn't seen yet so he grabs him by the hips to hold him in place while he satisfies his curiosity. He rubs soothing circles over his hipbones with the pads of his thumbs to ease the tension while he takes a good long look at him. His cock is every bit as pretty as the rest of him, pink and straight and begging to be touched. Frank could simply wrap his fingers around it, bring him off in a couple of strokes. That would be the nice thing to do. But Frank doesn't aim for nice, or for gentle for that matter. He's got a hunch that would be pretty much the last thing Russo wants right now. He doesn't want to be treated with kid gloves; he doesn't want to feel in control. He wants to submit. And Frank can give him that.

“Turn around,” he growls but he doesn't wait for Russo to move of his own accord. He spins him around to face the wall, then shoves him roughly forwards. Russo automatically takes the position Frank wants him in, arms outstretched, hands flat against the wall above his head, slightly bent over. Frank kicks his feet a little further apart, just for good measure.

“Stay,” he tells him and Russo doesn't move a muscle. He keeps absolutely still while Frank takes off his own clothes. There's only the sound of his ragged breathing in the room, and then, when Frank turns on the shower again, there's not even that. 

The water feels glorious when he steps back under the spray but to lean into Russo, skin against skin, is even better. Russo is taut as a bow string when they first come into contact but after a moment of mental adjustment he seems to get used to Frank's weight and relaxes a little. That's when Frank reaches around to grasp his erection. There's a sharp intake of breath, then silence again. Russo's cock lies heavy in his hand, and when Frank squeezes it a little, it grows even harder. Russo makes a strangled sound at the stimulation and Frank's own cock gives a twitch of sympathy. If they go on like this, he'll be hard again soon, and he's too tired for another round, so he'll better hurry.

“That's what you wanted, huh?” Frank breathes, his broad chest pressed to Russo's back, mouth almost touching the nape of his neck, and Russo nods. 

“Yes, sir,” he chokes out as Frank tightens his grip, Russo's dick throbbing under his fingers.

“That's my boy.” 

He begins to move his hand, up and down and up again over the length of Russo's erection, without finesse, a little rougher than pleasant probably, but that seems to be the whole deal here, to make it more rough than pleasant. Russo bucks into his strokes, even more enthusiastically when Frank digs the fingers of his free left hand into a large bruise on his upper thigh. His face is pressed into his own arm, stifling the sounds that come from his mouth, all the small moans and whimpers that rightfully belong to Frank but he doesn't have the energy to scold him for not letting him hear them.

It doesn't take long, Frank doesn't make it last that is, a quick hand job is all he can give Russo right now, but he ensures it's intense at least. He jerks him off until the movements of his hips stutter to a halt and then he wrings the orgasm from him with coarse hands and merciless pulls, strokes him through it as he comes apart, using his come for lube, smearing it all over his oversensitive cock until he has to grab him to keep him upright and Russo is pleading for him to stop, because it's too much. And eventually Frank does stop and lets go of him.

For a few short, valuable seconds of intimacy they stay like that, pressed into each other, skin against skin, exhausted, while Frank is willing his burgeoning hard-on away. It's nice to be so close to another human being for a change, feel them breathe, warm and alive under you. You tend to forget that when you're away from home for too long. Frank has to force himself to break away. After that normality kicks back in fast and they both remember what it was they came for: to wash off the dirt and the blood, the sweat and the taste of death. They finish their shower in silence, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts.

“Just so you don't get the wrong impression,” Russo says later, casually, as if in passing. “I like pussy.”

Frank doesn't ever bother to look up from the book he's reading. “Sure you do,” he mumbles and turns the page.

“I mean it,” Russo says, leaning over from his cot and grabbing the book to make him listen. “I prefer women.”

Now Frank does look up, slightly irritated. “Yeah, me too. Now let go of my book.” And that's pretty much all they ever talk about it.

Though unsurprisingly Russo's statement of sexual preferences doesn't prevent them from fucking behind a storage container a couple of days later. And in an empty garage some days after that. And then essentially everywhere they're undisturbed for a few minutes.

_

“I missed you, Frankie,” Billy whispers when he wipes the blood and drool off his lips. “I missed this.”

Frank saves the strength it would take to raise his head. He knows the expression on Billy's face, he has seen it often enough to picture it perfectly in his mind's eye. If he wasn't strapped to the chair, if he could reach out and grab him between the legs he's sure he'd find him hard. Getting off on pain can go both ways, and once you've acquired a taste for slaughtering lambs, what would be more thrilling than getting a wolf under your knife.

He's too tired to be outraged on his own behalf. He played his part in creating this monster, it's only fair he pays the price. If anyone deserves it, it's him. He's merely disappointed he won't be able to take him down himself. Frank's harbouring no illusions in that regard, he's sensible enough to know he's no match for Billy, not in the state he's in. His muscles are trembling with exhaustion. He has difficulties keeping his fucking head up. All he wants to do is crawl in a hole and die. There's no way he can take out Billy. If he gets lucky he'll be able to kill Rawlins. That's as much as he can hope for. 

He might only have one shot but he's gonna make it count.

Billy runs the cloth over his bottom lip again. It's without doubt an inappropriately intimate gesture, given the circumstances. And there were times when that would have stirred something in Frank, anything, regret perhaps, or affection, or pity for the childhood that shaped Billy, twisted him, ruined him, compassion for the trauma of abuse, but not anymore. He is cold inside, frozen, sharp fangs of barbaric glass, indecipherable, even to himself. He's slipping away, slowly, inexorably. Billy Russo is nothing but a fading shadow now, scarcely more than a memory.

~


End file.
